


forget what i said

by addgrain



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:37:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22157281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addgrain/pseuds/addgrain
Summary: The entire drive home, Auston doesn’t say a word to him. That’s fine, because Freddie really doesn’t want to talk anyway, mostly afraid of what he’d accidentally say if Auston actually pressed him.
Relationships: Frederik Andersen/Auston Matthews
Comments: 8
Kudos: 104





	forget what i said

**Author's Note:**

> Freddie got pulled against the Oilers and it was probably the angriest I've ever seen him. Also Auston was there. [Video of the helmet throwing here](https://twitter.com/LeafsAllDayy/status/1214354595893436416?s=20)
> 
> title from falling by harry styles

The entire drive home, Auston doesn’t say a word to him. That’s fine, because Freddie really doesn’t want to talk anyway, mostly afraid of what he’d accidentally say if Auston actually pressed him. 

He has to resist the urge to glance over at him when they’re stopped at a red light, but he knows what he’d see anyway— just Auston, head propped on his wrist, staring out the window, left hand curled around his knee, resting on the smooth fabric of his suit pants. His jaw would be set, eyes hard, but his shoulders would droop, exhausted from a disappointing performance all around. 

_At least he got to play_, Freddie thinks, bitter. _He got to fuck up and play the rest of the game and still score a goal_. 

Immediately, he feels shitty about it, even though he hadn’t said any of that out loud. Luckily, the light turns green, and Freddie drives again, shifting his attention back to the road. 

Getting home doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse, from the sight of shoes scattered messily in the entryway, because Auston never takes the time to arrange them neatly like a fucking adult no matter how much Freddie reminds him, to the fact that the heat is cranked way too high right now, because Auston’s always cold and bitching about the temperature in Freddie’s apartment. Freddie takes off his coat and tosses it over the couch in the living room as he goes rather than hanging it up like he usually does, because he knows Auston’s just going to throw his haphazardly there too. 

He’s not being fair. He knows this, and still he can’t stop, even knowing that Auston didn’t really do anything, and that picking apart his cohabitation tendencies like this is irrational and pointless. 

But for two hours, Freddie had to sit on the fucking bench, stewing in anger, because no one else on the team could get it together enough for Freddie to have a fighting chance. He doesn’t give a shit about being rational right now— that flew out the window the moment he got pulled. 

Auston’s still trailing behind him, silent. The tension in the air is palpable, because Freddie hasn’t cooled down at all from the ridiculous postgame media he still had to do.

_Everyone played like shit. Everyone was shit and it wasn’t fair and I want you to get out of my face, _Freddie had wanted to say. He still wants to say that now, but the only person who’d hear it would be Auston, and he doesn’t deserve that.

Freddie goes to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water out of the fridge. He uncaps it, draining half of it in one go, then sets it down. He stands there, hands braced on the edge of the counter, back to Auston, and tries to breathe. 

The silence is almost suffocating. Normally, Auston might have touched him by now, come up behind him and wrapped him in a hug, and they’d stand there until Freddie settled down, and then they’d go to bed together, exhausted. This isn’t like those times though. Freddie can’t remember the last time he’d ever been this angry, and he’s not even close to being tired. 

Finally, Auston speaks. “Sorry,” he says, quiet. 

“For what,” Freddie says, voice flat. Apologies aren’t going to do shit, now. 

When Auston doesn’t say anything, Freddie slumps a little, turning around to face him.

Auston’s leaning on the island in the kitchen, farther away than Freddie wants him to be, arms crossed and hunched in on himself. He can’t stop worrying his lip between his teeth, and despite still being in his suit, with his still damp, pushed back hair and his dumb moustache, he looks suddenly younger now than he has to Freddie in a long time. 

“For what,” Freddie says again, much calmer than he feels. “What are you sorry for?”

From where he’s standing, Auston stares at him, eyes round, like he thinks this is a test. It’s not meant to be, but it probably seems like one, the way Freddie feels like he might explode at any second.

“I don’t know,” Auston says eventually, and chews at the skin at the side of his thumb. “I guess… I’m sorry we weren’t better for you today. I mean— I wanted to be better. I know the game was bad. We let you down, but I— I was trying, and we almost came back. We came close.” 

Then Auston shrugs. The movement is jerky and forced, probably meant to _seem_ nonchalant more than anything, but suddenly Freddie sees red. How the fuck can he act so casual, when Freddie was embarrassed like that, then made it worse for himself when he basically threw a tantrum on the bench for the whole world to see. 

“Not everything’s about you. God, Auston,” Freddie snaps. He regrets it immediately when Auston flinches, looking both shocked and hurt. But he’s started now, and he can’t stop, still simmering. It feels good to let it out. “I don’t really care that you scored. I don’t care that you played better in the second half, or whatever, because I didn’t even get the chance to battle back, okay? Jesus.”

Auston looks stunned.

“What the hell,” Auston says after a pause, just as soft as before, though it’s clipped this time. Harsh.

Freddie feels the anger drain out from him, almost like Auston’s sucking it into himself now, backing away from Freddie and posture stiffening. Now that he’s yelled at him over something that was mostly out of Auston’s control, he doesn’t feel better, but Auston definitely feels worse. He’s still not thinking straight enough to fix this shit, though, so he just sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

“Just go to bed, Aus,” Freddie says. He doesn’t look at Auston when he says it, so he can only listen as Auston leaves, hearing his footsteps soften, and then the door upstairs slam shut. 

He stands in the kitchen for a long time after that, while the sounds of the tap turning on and off filter down faintly from upstairs. He’s still mad, obviously, but he feels bad now, too. Less numb to that than before, now that Auston’s stormed off.

Eventually, his legs start to feel stiff, and he grabs a new bottle of water and goes back into the living room. Their coats are still there, Freddie’s draped along the back of the couch and Auston’s crumpled in a heap on the floor where he’d missed when he threw it. 

Freddie picks them both up, going to hang them up by the door, and is surprised to feel fondness now rather than annoyance or anger when he looks closer at Auston’s coat clutched in his hands. 

Freddie had picked this coat out for Auston last month, when they went shopping a week before Christmas. He remembers the way Auston had stepped out of the dressing room, a little half smile on his face as he cocked his hip and asked Freddie how he looked. 

_Good, _Freddie had managed in response. It had come out hoarse, because Freddie had chosen that specific coat carefully, and Auston looked better than just _good, _the fabric dark against his skin, fitted at the waist. Freddie had to try hard to stop himself from kissing Auston right then and there. When they got home, Auston had put it on again in the bedroom just to tease him, but it was okay because then Freddie got to peel all his clothes off of him, mouth following the path of his hands. 

That was weeks ago, and Auston hadn’t been playing well then, either. They’d both seen the articles about how “Matthews is the problem”, even though Auston liked to pretend he didn’t know they’d been written. Auston had four or five bad games in a row, and still he’d come home with Freddie every time, jaw set and shoulders slumped and quieter than ever. He’d been angry then too, like Freddie is now, because he’s harder on himself than anyone else in the world. But Auston would still tuck himself under Freddie’s chin every night, saying _just be better tomorrow_, over and over. He still trusted Freddie to hold onto him as he went to sleep, because the next morning he’d have to go to practice again and keep working harder than anyone else there. Now Auston’s playing great, and all the shit from that slump seems so dumb and insignificant in hindsight.

_Fuck_, Freddie thinks. He stands there in the doorway by the coat rack and amongst the scattered shoes, still sweating as the heater keeps blasting.

Eventually, Freddie goes upstairs, worn out now that the adrenaline has gone. 

Auston’s already asleep when he pushes the door open gently, careful not to wake him. Freddie can’t see his face, Auston curled on his side, facing away from the door, but Freddie knows by now the even rise and fall of his back when he’s deep in sleep.

He gets undressed, wincing at the clink of his belt when he slips it off, but leaves his clothes in a pile by the foot of the bed. Setting his phone on the dresser, Freddie peels back the covers gently and slides in behind Auston. He wraps an arm around his waist, skin of his stomach warm beneath his palms. 

At Freddie’s touch, Auston starts to wake, shifting in Freddie’s arms. 

“Fred?” Auston whispers, blinking slowly. 

“Hey,” Freddie says, and lets Auston turn around fully so they’re facing each other.

“You okay?” Auston asks, like he was the one who had just lost his shit at Freddie instead of the other way around. His eyes are still half lidded, mouth soft and touch gentle on Freddie’s bare chest, and Freddie suddenly feels a rush of affection so strong his chest constricts painfully with it. He leans in, pressing their lips together and kissing Auston thoroughly as Auston sighs against his mouth. 

They kiss and kiss, Auston’s hair soft and the skin of his cheek even more so under his fingers. When Freddie finally pulls back, Auston’s eyes are closed again and his mouth is swollen and shiny with spit. 

“I’m fine,” Freddie says, a belated answer to a question Auston probably didn’t expect an answer to when he’d first asked it. “I’m so sorry,” he says, and it’s a miracle his voice doesn’t crack. 

He should explain, probably, that he’s not sorry for being angry at himself, because he always expects the best of himself. He’s not sorry for being angry at the team either, because he knows they’re better than this. He _is_ sorry, though, for taking it out on Auston, and for letting one bad game fuck with their relationship so badly. But with Auston— he’s never really had to say very much.

“Me too,” Auston says, and pushes forward so he can tuck himself against Freddie’s chest, Freddie’s chin propped against the top of his head. “I meant it. I’m sorry.”

“It’s just hockey,” Freddie says, pressing his lips to Auston’s forehead. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

This game was an accumulation of a ton of shitty things. He’s admittedly felt off recently, letting in more goals than he wants and seeing his save percentage drop. He thinks he probably could’ve made the save on that second goal, too, but it is what it is. The team hadn’t been playing great defense either, and their carelessness had caught up to them and had blown the game wide open. There’s a lot to be critical about, and there’s a lot to be learned. 

In the grand scheme of things, though, it’s just hockey. One bad game isn’t going to kill him, and one game isn’t ever more important than Auston.

“We’ll be better tomorrow,” Auston mumbles, sounding nearly asleep again already. “Promise.”

“Me too,” Freddie says, brushing a thumb across Auston’s cheekbone. He lets his touch linger, soft, and closes his eyes, too.

**Author's Note:**

> can the leafs not do this to freddie goddamn. or me for that matter. now i have to write fic to cope.


End file.
